Chapter 187: Destroyed The Cursed (4)

Chapter 187

Han had always wondered just how powerful the third and final form of the Lightning Force Technique would be—Thunderstorm. Ever since he fused Thunderwrath with his spirit summon, he had gained access to the legendary trio of lightning-based skills. Back then, these techniques were considered some of the most devastating among high S-rank abilities, and the Lightning Force stood at the very peak. Han still remembered the raw terror he felt when he first experienced Thunderclap firsthand. Its violent impact, sheer malice, and wide-range destruction had left him both wounded and awestruck.

If Thunderclap was that monstrous, how terrifying would Thunderstorm be?

He had often considered testing it out, but the opportunities never aligned. Situations were either too delicate or too confined. But now, facing a vast army of gang members who had rallied together against them, Han’s thoughts returned to that forbidden technique.

There were just too many of them.

At first, he hesitated—not out of fear, but because he wasn’t sure how he’d feel after taking so many lives. These gang members weren’t his true enemies. The cursed were. So, in a moment of mercy, Han offered them a chance to retreat.

But arrogance, greed, and blind stupidity made them reject it.

Instead of backing off, the gang surged forward, intending to overwhelm the group, kill them, and loot their remains.

Han had seen enough.

He wasted no more time.

After eliminating their leader with ease, he soared into the sky. With a single motion, the air crackled, and his voice rang out like judgment.

> "Lightning Force: Thunderstorm."



A blinding bolt of lightning ripped through the sky and slammed into the hordes below. What followed was not a battle—it was a massacre. Many didn’t even have the chance to scream. They were instantly obliterated, their existence wiped out as if the heavens themselves had issued divine punishment.

Thousands died in an instant.

Those who survived the initial blast didn’t fare much better. The residual lightning tore through their bodies, frying them from within. Nerves burned, bones shattered, organs exploded. Their screams were swallowed by the endless roar of thunder, crashing down like a tidal wave of death.

Agony beyond comprehension. A hell none could have imagined.

Seconds passed. Then the thunderstorm finally ceased. The dark clouds parted slowly, revealing the sun’s rays which now bathed the smoldering battlefield in eerie light.

The allied heroes, who had initially prepared to sweep up the survivors, stopped dead in their tracks.

Their eyes widened. Their mouths hung open.

At the center of the charred field where Han’s attack had landed, the earth itself had been scorched beyond recognition. Flames no longer danced, but the static lingered like the ghost of divine fury.

Yet, their fear wasn’t just because of the silence that followed—it was the scene before them.

Everywhere they looked, the area was scorched, torn apart beyond recognition. The fried remains of gang members littered the ground, their bodies barely recognizable, some completely erased as if they had never existed at all. Not even a speck of ash remained in some places.

Instinctively, all eyes turned skyward—to the lone figure hovering in the air.

His body still crackled with residual lightning, and his expression was eerily calm—almost like he was simply enjoying the breeze. Certainly not like someone who had just slaughtered over a thousand people, some of whom were awakened warriors wielding high-grade weapons and defenses. None of it had helped them. Not against Han.

The heroes watching swallowed hard. A single, chilling thought echoed in all their minds:

The leader of the Tryst Guild... wasn’t human.

He was a monster. No—something far worse.

A demon.

Perhaps even the devil incarnate.

Meanwhile, Han remained suspended in the air, eyes fixed on the aftermath of his own attack. He didn’t show it, but even he was surprised. Never in his wildest imagination had he expected the attack to utterly annihilate the entire opposing force.

Earlier, when he had activated Thunderstorm, he felt it—a deep, hungry drain on his power. Even with energy reserves that could put most S-rankers to shame, Han had paled when he sensed over half of it being consumed almost instantly. It was as if an endless siphon had been triggered, devouring his strength at an unreasonable speed.

By the time the skill ended, more than half his energy was gone.

And yet... he had chosen to feed it even more.

Another 20%.

He had hoped it would help him wipe out at least half the enemy force.

But never—not even once—had he expected it to obliterate everyone.

All of them.

Gone.

A part of him felt satisfied. This was a skill powerful enough to make even the most arrogant S-rankers think twice before crossing him.

But another part of him... was bitter.

Because Thunderstorm couldn’t be used again—at least not for several days.

Though his face showed nothing, Han was tired. That attack had taken 70% of his energy. Deep inside, he regretted offering that final 20%. In hindsight, he realized he could have achieved this result without it.

Still, there was no time to dwell.

Han wasn’t stupid. He would never use such a massive chunk of his energy without a backup plan. He still had many enemies left to face—the Dark Emissaries, their elites, and their leader:

Drake.

Han wasn’t reckless or stupid. He had prepared in advance.

Back in Serenaya, after taking down both Metallo and Freak Eye, he was rewarded with a large number of Creation Points. Using them wisely, Han developed two custom skills he believed would be crucial for this mission.

The first skill, Blood Surge, was tailored for energy recovery. It allowed him to absorb energy from the enemies he killed—essentially feeding off the chaos of battle. The more opponents he brought down, the faster his energy replenished. And right now, after unleashing his Thunderstorm skill and wiping out over a thousand enemies, Han could feel his energy bar surge back to full in an instant. If the system had allowed him to go beyond the maximum, he was certain even that would’ve been topped. A grin pulled at his lips—he was satisfied.

The second skill he created was Vital Rebirth. This one was for his survival. After all, what was the point of fighting if he died midway? When activated, the skill allowed him to convert a portion of his energy into health. Though currently only ranked B, it could be used twice per battle—a limitation Han was more than willing to accept. Together, these two skills formed the perfect combo: one for relentless offense, and one for survival. He would need both.



"Everyone move out!" Silver Wing’s voice snapped them all out of their daze. The rest of the heroes surged forward.

Surprisingly, they felt calm.

Why wouldn’t they? The devil was behind them—Han, the Devil, the Cursed Butcher. Who in their right mind would dare stop them now? Not to mention, they believed the Cursed had already used its deadliest card. What could possibly top that?

But as they advanced further, reality started to shift.

Roughly a few kilometers ahead stood a unit of men and women clad in crimson red armor. There were over two hundred of them, each standing tall with disciplined poise and focused eyes. Their presence was overwhelming. Unlike the chaotic gangs from earlier, this group had formation, unity, and strength. Each radiated a distinct aura—veterans of war, undoubtedly stronger than the mobs they’d crushed before.

Still, the heroes outnumbered them. Over three hundred strong, they had the advantage—on paper.

Leading the red-armored vanguard was a man with raven-black hair. His gaze was neutral, almost bored, as he observed the oncoming wave of heroes.

"Pathetic," he muttered. "Those filthy rats couldn’t even hold them long enough for final preparations."

But that wasn’t all. His calm demeanor didn’t falter even after witnessing the devastating thunderbolt earlier. Without emotion, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small circular device. Pressing its center, the device blinked, connecting him to the other agents.

A voice came through, crackling with static.

"What’s the situation?"

"The plan has failed," he answered causally.

"The mongrels were wiped out within minutes."

Silence greeted his words from the other end of the communicator. It lasted long enough to feel heavy—stunned, perhaps. Then finally, a voice responded, calm but cold:

"I see. Then we move to the next phase."

The Red Vanguard nodded solemnly. "Understood. Release the beast Forces."

A long pause came from the other end, followed by a chilling response.

"The beast forces will be unleashed. Make sure none of the invaders make it into the base. Eliminate them all."

The Red-armored man gave a sharp nod and cut the connection. Without another word, he reached into his suit and pulled out a sleek, matte-black nose mask, placing it over his face. The rest of the Red Vanguard followed his lead—fluid, precise, practiced.

He stared into the distance, his eyes gleaming behind his mask.

"You heroes truly have no idea what you’ve stepped into."

His thoughts burned with scorn.

"By the time this is over, you won’t even live long enough to regret your life choices."

From behind his back, he drew his weapon—an obsidian-black blade so thin and ethereal it seemed to vanish in the air. And yet, the pressure it radiated was unmistakable, crushing... suffocating.

The heroes readied themselves, weapons raised, eyes narrowed—they were about to charge. But then...

They stopped.

Not because of the Red Vanguard who just stood there unmoving.

But because of something far worse.

The ground trembled. A low rumble echoed beneath their feet, deep and primal, as if the earth itself feared what was coming.

None of them knew what was happening.

Except one.

Aiden.

His body stiffened.

He felt it—his blood reacting violently, as though every ounce of beast DNA inside him was in a frenzy. His teeth sharpened, eyes narrowed into golden slits, and his hands involuntarily shifted into claws.

He wasn’t controlling it.

He couldn’t.

And it wasn’t funny. Not funny at all.



With a twitch of the jaw, he fought to hold himself back, his feral instincts pushing to the surface. His gaze locked on the Red Vanguards standing a few kilometers away—calm, motionless, waiting.

His face tensed.

"What the hell are those cursed bastards planning now?"

The air felt wrong. Heavy. Unnatural.

If there was one thing Aiden knew for sure, it was this:

Whatever was coming... it wasn’t good. Not good at all.

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TO BE CONTINUED...

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